


Desperate Skin

by DemiFaun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, Implied Incest, implied wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiFaun/pseuds/DemiFaun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I... Don't think this needs a summary. It's really just shameless porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Buttsuoka_Rin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttsuoka_Rin/gifts).



> I quite literally shot this at MrsVanchaMarch paragraph by paragraph earlier today and we both agreed it needed to go on here.

There's a hand on your arm, mouth at your ear, breath against your cheek. Of course it's in /this/ bar, and it's _him_ leaning over your shoulder to buy you a drink. He smells like leather and smoke and there's whiskey on his breath; there is ash on his fingers and salt caught in the laces of his boots. (You told yourself weeks ago you'd have nothing more to do with him, even after he kicked in your door and saved your life, but maybe you feel you owe him a little something.)

Another gin & tonic is placed in your hand and he sits next to you instead of hovering over your shoulder, hand still on your arm. He seems cheerful, despite the heaviness in his shoulders, the smudges of soot and salt and lighter fluid you can't quite see but know full well are there anyway. You don't know if it's the whiskey or the success of a hunt well done, but his smile is catching and you find yourself laughing along with him anyway, leaning into him when an arm loops around your waist and his mouth is at your ear again. Maybe you've had a little too much to drink, but when he brushes the full sweep of his lower lip against the shell of your ear and whispers a question, you finish your drink in a gulp and follow him back out to the parking lot, where his car's parked off to the side, away from the hustle and bustle and the lights of the bar.

He pushes you up against the side with a dull thud, arms bracketing your shoulders against the passenger-side back door and mouth covering yours. He tastes like whiskey and beer, bitter and strong, and you kiss him until all you can taste is the inside of his mouth and he's moving slowly against your hip, half-hard under his well-loved jeans.

He pulls back to breath and to look down at you and you lick your lips, flicking your tongue into the corner to get the last taste of him there. Green eyes darken and he dips his head like he's going to kiss you again but his mouth finds the point of your pulse under the corner of your jaw and you arch up, clutching at his biceps through the leather of his jacket. He sucks a mark into the skin there and you know there's going to be questions about that in the morning but you don't care; he fits a thigh between yours and you push down onto it, making him shove you harder against the door of the Impala with another low thud.

You're panting by the time he leaves your neck, licking his lips this time, and you brace yourself against his leg. You're probably not going to make it into the backseat at this rate, but he bodily lifts you off the side of the car and sets you on your feet, waiting until you stop wobbling to let go of your waist. What a gentleman. Of course, he practically tosses you into the backseat, so maybe not. You slide up the leather so your back is almost against the door and he crawls in after you, twisting to yank the door closed and shut both of you into the almost-silent interior of the car. There's a moment's pause, where he crouches over you and you go perfectly still apart from your drumming heart and rapid breathing. Then his mouth is on your neck again and you twist, legs instinctively bracketing his hips and knees digging in as he darkens the mark on your throat. You dare to let out a moan this time, one hand in his short-cropped hair and the other clutching ineffectually at a broad shoulder.

His mouth is /wicked/ on your skin, and he seems to know it; the little noise you make gets a laugh out of him, breathed onto your damp skin in a flicker of hot air that's almost as good as his lips and tongue and teeth. No one has even bothered to take off any clothes but he doesn't seem to care, and it doesn't stop him from fitting a thigh between yours again and grinding up, making your head fall back against the leather upholstery and forcing your hips up.

He laughs, hot and wet into the crook of your neck, and slides one hand under your back to hold you hard against him. You can feel the length of him pressing into your thigh, heavy and hot, and you're suddenly almost paralyzed with want. He could have had any girl in that bar but it's _you_ splayed out on the leather under him, _you_ who's got him so hard that when you shift your weight against him he throbs against your leg and lets out a ragged little groan.

He lets you go for just a minute and rocks back on his knees and peels off his jacket and the first layer of shirt, tossing both into the front seat in a heap, one sleeve laying carelessly on the dashboard. That's funny, for some reason, but you don't have a chance to laugh before his mouth is on yours again, tongue licking easily past your teeth. He always kisses like it's everything, like he'll never see you again. Most of the time he won't, but you know better. You two always seem to cross paths, always seem to meet again when he's on or off the hunt. A hand slides under your back again and you arch up, letting him pull you up and in so your legs are back around his waist and he's fitted neatly against you, muscle shifting against your inner thigh as he grinds down against you.

The friction's enough to make you moan into his mouth, even through several layers of fabric and the constricted space in the car. He grinds down again and you shiver against him, tearing away from the kiss so you can /breathe/, dammit, panting against his ear as he leans down to bite and mark your neck again. It's faintly hilarious that 90% of everyone's clothing is still on so you pull at his tee, trying to get him to take the freakin' hint already. It's hotter than hell in the car and the windows are already fogging up from the pair of you. He doesn't seem to get it right away so you pull a little harder, rucking it up the smooth plane of his back and dragging your nails through the dip at the base of his spine.

 _That_ gets his attention, hips juddering against yours and his breath rushing out in a hiss against the wet skin of your neck. Finally he gets with the program and rocks back again, peeling his shirt off over his head and giving you time to wriggle out of yours; he flings them both into the front seat for you as you twist out of your bra. That goes flying as well, landing elegantly draped over the steering wheel. It's all a mad rush to get as naked as possible as fast as possible after that, even if you're left laughing as he almost dives into the front seat after his jeans when he remembers that he left the condom in the back pocket.

He crawls the back with you again, breathless with his own laughter, and sets the little foil packet on the back ledge of the car for safekeeping. Shuffling down the leather he hooks your legs over his shoulders, the only place for them in what little space there was in the back of the car. The first flick of his tongue against your clit makes you arch and bite your bottom lip, eyes fluttering shut. Every flick and curl of his tongue is enough to make you tremble, and you're absolutely positive that he's smirking against your folds as he takes you slowly apart, pushing you closer and closer until you're literally writhing for it, trapped between him and the backseat, sweat beading in the small of your back and the dip of your upper lip, making your skin feel clammy and sticky.

Broad hands encircle your hips and pull you down harder against his mouth, tongue curling up and /in/ and /God/. You clutch at one of his hands with one of yours, the other fisting into his short hair as you come apart, heat pulsing through you in waves and your muscles clenching rhythmically against his tongue, against his mouth.

He moves while you're still lax and pliant, legs still loose enough that he leaves them over his shoulders, your knees almost on either side of your ears. He stretches over to the back ledge for the condom and you watch hazily, fascinated by the shift and play of muscles under his skin. He grins down at you, all teeth and freckles and full, soft mouth when he catches you staring. You can't quite see his hands as he tears open the packet and rolls the condom down over his cock, stroking once or twice just to take the edge off. Then his hand is dipping down and there are broad fingers stroking you, brushing over your clit and making your hips jump out of surprise. Then they dip and press in, a smooth slide that makes you bite your lip to stifle a moan. He thrusts a few times, shallowly at first, and you're not sure whether it's because he wants to make sure you're wet and open enough or if he just enjoys watching you squirm.

And you do, still sensitive and throbbing, purposefully squeezing around his fingers. He's vocal during the actual sex, but right now he's quiet and focused, eyes fixed on where his fingers disappear into the clutch of your body. Then they thrust hard, right up to the knuckles, and they _curl_ against that little bud inside you that makes stars flash across your vision. Your hips jerk and you cry out, clenching on his fingers. He does it again, and again, a steady rocking against your sweet spot until you're coming again, tight on his fingers with your hips thrusting helplessly against the pleasure, trying to ride it out. He brings you down slowly, easing you back off that edge with short thrusts of his fingers that leave you quivering, and before you can even properly catch your breath he's pulling his fingers out, cocking his hips forward, and sliding into you in one smooth, even thrust.

You bite your tongue, then, because you _know_ he's going to be loud and you want to hear it. He's gentle, always is, even in the backseat of a car where there's not enough room for him to lift his head all the way and one leg is hanging off the edge of the seat. Apart from that first deep thrust there isn't even a hint of desperation, not in the way he moves, anyway.

But he makes a punched-out sound at that first thrust, a soft grunt that sounds literally forced out of him, and his eyes fall closed. Every rocking movement of his hips between your thighs is enough to make him moan, low in the back of his throat. He's beautiful like this, face lost and open, mouth wet and soft and you pull him down for a kiss.

He starts, his whole body jerking against yours like he'd forgotten you were there. His eyes don't open but he kisses back, a soft slide of his mouth against yours.  Broad hands settle on your hips again and he pulls you down to meet his thrusts, pausing every time he bottoms out to grind in a slow circle into you, your clit riding the edge of his pelvis and the head of his cock stroking loosely over your sweet spot. Then there's the slow drag outward again, the smooth push in and it repeats until he's shaking with it, and you're trying damn hard not to come apart under him.

You stopped kissing him a few thrusts ago, and now his mouth is just almost touching yours, breathing the same air across your mouth, the sheen of sweat on your upper lip, his nose brushing yours.  You hook a leg around the back of his thigh and pull him in a little faster, a little harder, knowing full well that without the encouragement he's going to carry on at this pace until you both pass out from the heat and the tension.

The rhythm of panted out groans against your lip is interrupted by another punched-out groan and he takes the hint, pushing you harder into the leather as he /properly/ fucks you this time, in sharp shallow thrusts that are almost better than the slow, deep rhythm, But he's still maddeningly gentle, the car barely moving under the weight of the pair of you. You pull away from his mouth, pull him down into the crook of your shoulder and mouth at his ear, heel digging into his thigh.

There's a shuddering breath against your neck and his thrusts pick up again, a little faster, a little harder. The suspension creaks a little, the Impala rocking a little more now. "That's it... C'mon, baby, I gotcha..."

He shudders against you, hips juddering to a stop and you feel him throb, breath out a word against the curl of your neck. 

"Sammy..."


End file.
